October 2, 2014
At 21:00 minutes in, having just orgasmically, expertly disemboweled a dull eyed, opiated, painted jezebeliian street urchin in a moldy, mist covered alley on London's questionable side, Jack the Ripper is stunned into flight by the appearance three axe wielding, stinking, fur matted, growling minotaurs. He's no time to consider where they've come from, why they're so intently eyeing his tools, or precisely why they're each wearing matching beautiful, multicolored, triple armed, bell tipped, felt jester's caps. It doesn't matter. There's no time. Laughing hysterically, trailing fresh gore like the regurgitated breadcrumbs of some ninth century Austrian vampire, The Ripper is vaulting into the vacuuming night. The fog congealing about him like venom tainted blood, he moves through London's back alleys with a jerky, insatiable haste...a psychopathic pacman controlled by invisible fingers molesting some archaic otherworldly joystick. Behind him, gaining, alternatively barking and chittering in a strange, but nearly decipherable language, the labyrinthine guardians, loosed from history, are rattling off numbers, equations, keeping geometric track of each step taken, each choreographed shift in direction. 22:40 and Jack turns a corner. The ground evaporates, all mist dispelled in an instant. Lungs balloon. A gasp. Of what? Air? No, he's inhaled London itself. Every cobbled stone, every clueless, blind detective, every whore pieced and perfectly placed, every eventual victim,the whole mad city, vaporized like steam and breathed deeply into the center. The universe spins around him, his head expanding, heart exploding with maddening tension and this nagging alien doubt, a tentacled sense of having somehow lost his way. He's always been so sure. Destined. 25:20 My God what have I done?! Forgive me! He screams. He turns around, and sees nothing, can't even grasp direction in the infinite black somehow enveloping his very being. He's lost his mind completely. Finally snapped after all these careful years. The minotaurs are gone. Were they ever there? The Madman exhales...26:52...oh yea...every murder, every careful ritual, all the needs and deep, persistent desire...27:12...oh yea...he breathes and the accustomed calm returns. He looks down, the familiar knife, the clockwork dripping, the ironous odour of the fresh, ceremonious kill...all remembered, all slowing and cradling him back into his senses. The Ripper cares not where he's been, he knows where he's going. He's fine. Oh yea.